


Reflections on Falling for a Magister

by Sarahshenanigans



Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Fluff, Implied Sexual Content, M/M, Spoilers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-03
Updated: 2017-08-03
Packaged: 2018-12-10 20:08:36
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,114
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11699022
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sarahshenanigans/pseuds/Sarahshenanigans
Summary: Khaeman Adaar and Dorian Pavus ponder on the events that led to their romance.





	Reflections on Falling for a Magister

**Author's Note:**

> I've tried to create male Inquisitors before, but I could never get into their characters. During my last playthrough, I decided that Dorian needed a knight in shining armour. So I made him one. And I love them. This is the first time I've enjoyed a male Inquisitor.

Khaeman knew he was in trouble the moment the figure turned, smirked confidently, and asked how the mark worked. Something about the cocky swagger of his stance, the playful banter and accompanying voice, struck the burly Qunari mercenary somewhere behind his ribs and wedged there. Unlike his own nervous sarcasm, Dorian was all smooth, self-assured charisma. All of the mages that Khaeman had known had been as skittish as alley cats; driven by desperation and paranoia. Fragile. Dorian was anything but.  


In Redcliffe castle, stranded in an apocalyptic hellscape, Dorian was invaluable. His capability and intelligence calmed some of Khaeman’s anxiety that they wouldn’t be able to get back, to prevent this nightmare. The first time he heard the mage’s grunt of effort, resulting in the eruption of a wall of flame to shield Khaeman’s left flank, something delicious and surprising had pooled in his stomach.  


He’d noticed men before. Appreciated a strong physique and a well-formed face. But never had he felt such affection for his own gender. It was alarming, but not unwelcome. He found himself visiting Dorian often, asking every question he could think of just for the fluttery joy he felt when he listened to his companion’s voice. When he finally seemed to have exhausted every point of curiosity he could think to pursue, they’d discussed Tevinter’s geography, government, Chantry, Dorian’s life, and his opinions on southern politics. Khaeman felt sure he could write a book when they were through, but still he was not satisfied.  


Dorian visited him once, during his recovery from nearly freezing to death in the mountains. He assumed that the mage thought he was unconscious as he laid a hand on Khaeman’s broad chest, his brow knitted in concern, and poured welcome heat through his hand into the Herald’s skin. The image replayed itself in Khaeman’s mind every night when he closed his eyes, but the sensation of Dorian’s hand on his skin was on his mind even during his waking hours.  


After their conversations in Skyhold’s library tower, Khaeman sometimes caught a momentary melancholy in Dorian’s eyes. Only for an instant, quick enough that he may have questioned whether he even saw it at all, except for the hollow ache in his chest. To make up for it, the mercenary-turned-Inquisitor made Dorian laugh as often as possible, exchanging flirtatious banter whenever he had a spare moment. He tried not to feel overwhelmed at his pounding heart when Dorian called him “strapping.” He felt this absurd need to protect the mage, despite much evidence that Dorian did not need protecting.  


So, when Mother Giselle approached the Inquisitor with a letter from Magister Pavus, he was torn. He could not spare Dorian this pain, but perhaps he could ease it, a little. Khaeman accompanied his friend to Redcliffe, encouraged him to hear what his father had to say, gave him space, then approached him cautiously. He hoped, prayed, that Dorian harbored no ill-will for the events in the tavern, and was rewarded by a trusting smile and a heartfelt thanks. Almost before he realized what he was doing, he’d leaned in and pressed a gentle kiss to Dorian’s lips. Shock was swiftly replaced by ecstatic joy, like fireworks in his heart, when instead of pulling away, his handsome mage returned and deepened the kiss. He wasn’t sure what he’d ever done to deserve this, but he would cherish it always.

 

Dorian almost couldn’t believe that the Inquisitor had ever been a mercenary. He acted more like a Chevalier. Always thinking of the down-trodden, the less-fortunate. Willing to go out of the way to return a mad old woman’s family ring, or gather supplies for a random Dalish clan. He lacked some of a Chevalier’s social grace, as evidenced by his endearing bumbling at the Winter Palace, but made up for it in determination to do the right thing.  


He was surprisingly graceful, Dorian noticed. He wielded his massive axe like it was a part of him. Despite its bulk, and the weight of his armour, he moved like a dancer on the battlefield. It was damn near distracting. On more than one occasion, Dorian had leaned out the window of the library alcove where he spent most of his time just to watch Khaeman spar with the Iron Bull in the courtyard below. That was undeniably distracting.  


The little smiles Khaeman shared with Dorian, while he judged prisoners or talked to Grand Enchanter Fiona, made Dorian’s pulse quicken like it hadn’t since he was an adolescent. This large, menacing-looking man made Dorian feel like a silly school boy. He tried to fight it. To push it down and ignore the knots in his belly whenever the Inquisitor stopped to chat. He was not new to this, after all. He was not naive enough to believe that someone like Adaar would actually care for an Altus. More than anything, though, Dorian was surprised that the thought hurt him so much.  


So when they kissed, Dorian didn’t hesitate a moment. He would not squander this. If it never happened again, he knew that he would carry the memory of Adaar’s surprisingly gentle mouth on his until his last breath. He’d resigned himself to believe that it was a one-time event, until the Inquisitor came sauntering back up the stairs of the library, a sparkle in his eye that made Dorian’s chest squeeze painfully, and said, ‘Let’s do something interesting.”  


It was almost too much to hope that his Inquisitor (when had Dorian started to think of Khaeman as _his_ ), would actively seek to spend time with him. To defend him from the ire of that clucking Chantry hen, Mother Giselle. To take his hand and look into his eyes with unmistakable affection in front of all of Thedas.  


When Dorian came to Adaar’s quarters, intending seduction, he’d never expected the man to stop him. To say that he wanted more than just a dalliance. To look so vulnerable as he waited for Dorian’s shock to pass. To kiss him so deeply and then fumble nervously with his clothing as he undressed. When Khaeman admitted that he’d never been with a man before, Dorian froze. Searched his Amatus’s eyes for signs of hesitation or fear. He found nothing but nervous excitement, and Dorian swore to be gentle.  


Afterward, he thought he might explode from joy as Khaeman held him, his chest rising and falling rhythmically, little snores escaping periodically. This is what Dorian had been craving. What all of those rushed, furtive rendezvous behind closed doors in Minrathous had been missing. He didn’t try to hide his smile when Adaar nuzzled his shoulder sleepily and whispered, “I love you.”


End file.
